


a world that was meant for our eyes to see

by liquidsky



Series: the future and the dreams it's made of [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Bliss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sharing The Mantle, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 14:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18671998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Sam reaches for the remote, turning on the morning news. He glances back at them after a few minutes to find that Bucky has his eyes closed and Steve’s looking out the window, a content little smile on his face.It’s not at all different from how their mornings usually go. Sam grins, too. The relative silence is comfortable, and it strikes Sam just how used to them he is, to their little three-piece puzzle.//In which Sam, Steve, and Bucky survive and get to find out what regular life feels like.





	a world that was meant for our eyes to see

**Author's Note:**

> so i had a full moment after watching endgame for the 4th day in a row and had to write this. doesn't contain any spoilers (full canon divergence here, folks).

"What are you doing?" Sam asks, turning the corner that leads to their newly restored living room. Steve slams his laptop shut fast enough that it very nearly breaks, and Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. 

"Nothing," he says, from where he's sitting on the floor between the sofa and the center table, laptop balanced on his thighs. He's wearing suspiciously short sweat shorts and a tank top. Sam averts his eyes. 

"Okay," Sam drawls. He leans against the back of the sofa, staring right at Steve for a long unnerving second before shrugging. "You're being weird again," he points out. 

"You're being weird," is Steve's fifth-grade level rebuke. He cringes at his own words and Sam snorts. 

"Sure," he says. "Bucky's ordering lunch, d'you want anything?"

"What are you ordering?" Steve places the laptop under the table and gets up, shorts riding up and bunching obscenely on his crotch. He adjusts them, and Sam tries very hard to act as though he's not having a conniption. 

He makes sure to look Steve in the face when he answers, "Burgers," 

"From Juanchis?" He starts following Sam back to the kitchen, where Bucky is sat on the counter with his phone in hand. 

Bucky's eyes pause over the stretch of Steve's sweat shorts across his thighs for the briefest of moments – Sam feels weirdly validated as Bucky looks the other way, a blush warming the bridge of his nose. 

At least he's not the only one. 

"Yep," he says, leans on the sink across from Bucky. Sam tilts his head at him and Bucky mouths _shut up_. 

He turns to look at Steve, "How many do you want?" 

"Uh," Steve says, like he actually needs to think about it. He usually has from 3 to 5 burgers whenever they order (which is often). Bucky, for whatever reason, always seems to find it endlessly amusing. Sam kind of does, too. 

He waits him out, tapping his fingers against the sink and staring at Bucky's impatient little frown. 

"I'm ordering five," Bucky concludes. Steve opens his mouth to object, but Bucky stops him before he gets to speak. "I'm starving and you're taking forever."

Sam watches as Steve seems to consider.

"Five sounds good," he agrees. 

Bucky nods, "Ok, so it's one Sunny with a side of sweet potato fries for Sam, two Old Buddies and an Original with two sides of french fries for me, two Sunnies, one Original, one Spanish Queen and one Old Buddy for Steve." 

Sam's kind of lost in the logistics of the whole thing, ends up looking blankly at Bucky until Steve speaks again, 

"I'll have a side salad too," Steve says, and Bucky has the audacity to snort. Sam ends up laughing, too, much to Steve's bemusement. 

"Ok, all that and a side salad," Bucky repeats, "Good that you're watching your figure."

Steve rolls his eyes at him, shoves him to the side in what is, by usual Steve standards, a very gentle manner. 

Bucky makes the order, the math in his head made perfectly understandable to whoever's on the other end of the line. He's smiling when he disconnects the call, and Sam feels something weird flutter around in his stomach. 

He ignores it. 

"Should be here in half an hour," Bucky states. 

He hops down from the counter and shoves at Steve, who steps on his foot so he ends up stumbling forward. 

Sam watches their odd little dance with a small smile. They're idiots, sure, and living with them in such close counters is occasionally infuriating and somewhat frustrating, but it's fun, too, in its own way. 

Even if he finds that he's constantly having to avert his eyes from the distracting curves of Steve's body. 

Bucky seems to be caught in the same predicament—Sam's not sure if that makes it more or less embarrassing. 

"Do we have any plans for today?" Sam asks them.

Both of them have taken over the couch, Bucky with his feet up, propped unceremoniously on Steve's lap. Steve, in turn, has his feet propped on the center table, and Sam needs to get it together and stop staring at his legs. It's getting out of hand. 

He glances at Bucky, then at Steve (who seems to be pretending he doesn't keep looking at his laptop with a panicky expression. Sam's decided that ignoring whatever's up with Steve might be in his best interest) and flops down on one of the three red chairs that Bucky thought would (and he quotes) _go well with the decor_. It kind of looks like shit, in all honesty, but neither he nor Steve had really wanted to burst his bubble. They should have, given the shit-eating look in Bucky's eyes whenever he as much as glances at the chairs. 

Bucky sighs, "Haven't heard anything yet," then, "Steve?" 

Steve's gaze snaps back up to them, and Sam narrows his eyes at the laptop. Maybe he should ask? 

"Nothing yet," he says. "Tony sent me a message about keeping an eye on Peter earlier today. Apparently he's involved with something?" 

"Supervillain kind of shit?" Sam asks. He likes Peter, even if he doesn't quite understand how or why the whole team seems to think of themselves as parental figures. He hasn't called anyone out on it yet, but you never know. 

"Don't think so," Steve answers. He throws his head against the back of the couch, and Sam glances briefly at Bucky only to find that he's staring at the line of Steve's neck with way too much focus. Sam sighs. 

"I'm keeping an eye on it," Steve says, "If there is any trouble we'll know about it." 

"Good," Bucky says. Sam is not sure he heard a single word Steve just said, based only on the glazed look that's taken over his features. 

"Ok," Sam agrees. The whole point of the question was knowing whether or not he could count himself free for the afternoon. It's less that he feels obligated to join in for all superhero activities and more that he likes them more than he'd care to admit. "I was planning on doing groceries later today," he tells them. "Anyone want anything?"

"We need more cereal," Steve says, just as Bucky asks, 

"Can I come?" 

"Noted," Sam tells Steve, followed by "Nope," to Bucky. 

Steve snorts, and Bucky drives his heel down to kick Steve's leg. "Asshole," he says.

"You take too long choosing things, man," Sam explains. Bucky frowns. "And I need to stop by the VA after. Unless you wanna come to that too?" 

"No, thanks," Bucky breathes out, very quickly. 

Sam props his feet on the table, shoots Bucky one last look before grabbing the remote to turn the TV on, "Thought so."

—

When Sam walks into the apartment drenched in sweat and balancing about three hundred different eco bags full of groceries in his arms, it's to find Peter sprawled on their couch and Bucky, fully decked in his Captain America uniform, standing up with his hips cocked and his fingers resting on his temple. 

"Uh, hi?" Sam says, maneuvering all groceries inside and placing them on the floor next to the door. "Everything okay?" 

"Yeah," Peter says. Bucky doesn't particularly look like he agrees, so Sam raises his eyebrows at him. 

"An absolute shitstorm," Bucky tells him. From the couch, Peter winces. Sam takes him in – he looks rough, with speckles of dried blood all over his face and a weirdly shaped bruise down his jaw. Bucky looks slightly chaotic, too, hair all over the place. 

"Um, what happened, exactly?" He asks. "Should we order some takeout?" Then, directed only to Peter, "You staying?" 

"If that's okay," Peter says. Sam tries to assess whether his suit is dirtying up the couch or not. It's probably a lost cause, he figures, eyeing the dark patch of _something_ under Peter's hands.

"Sure," he agrees. He turns to Bucky, and Bucky sighs. 

“It was some sort of heist on a few alien items, it would've been fine, I think, but a few of them had superpowers," he explains. 

Peter adds, "Which I didn't know about," to which Bucky, very simply, drawls,

"Obviously." 

Sam stares at them for a second. "Okay," he says. "Is it handled?"

Bucky huffs, standing up a little straighter and shooting Sam his most disbelieving look. "The fact that you have to ask–"

Peter looks between them when Sam raises both of his hands in a placating gesture, 

"Well, sorry," Sam tells him, "I didn't even know it was your day to have the suit." 

Bucky's scowl grows even deeper. "It wasn't."

Sam's officially confused. They operate on a system, you see, not that clean-cut, but usually comprehensive enough that no one ends up stepping on any toes. Not that there are any toes to step on – Steve's remarkably relaxed about the whole thing. Maybe a bit too relaxed, if the funny-looking contortion of Bucky's face is any indication. 

"He was _napping_ ," Bucky tells him. He sounds annoyed beyond belief, and Sam has to resist the urge to snort. 

"It was a pretty good nap," says Steve, coming out of his bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Sam averts his eyes just in time to see Peter's gaze snap to Steve's abs. He goes just about cross-eyed trying not to stare, his cheeks a red so bright that Sam has to wonder if it can't be seen from space.

Sam can relate. 

Bucky can't, apparently. (That's a first, Sam notes). He stares daggers at Steve, who very obnoxiously makes his way to Bucky only to slap him on the back a few times too many and announce, "Good job, Buck."

Peter's staring at the ceiling, Sam notices, and he looks almost purple. 

"Steve," Sam calls. Steve turns to him, ignoring Bucky's eye roll as if it's not at all directed at him. "Maybe put on some clothes?"

"Oh," he says. He glances at Peter. Peter doesn't meet his eyes, so Sam just looks at Steve until he hauls ass back to the bedroom and comes out dressed in another pair of tiny sweat shorts and a loose t-shirt. Sam's intrigued – the concept of a loose shirt on Steve is a novelty nowadays, and he's _fine_ with it. 

"Do I need to debrief?" Bucky asks. "Don't answer that, actually. I don't, you're calling Tony and Nat,"

"I wasn't there," Steve argues, sitting next to Peter on the couch. Peter glances at him curiously, then at Bucky. 

Bucky shrugs, "Sucks to be you, pal," 

"Wait," Peter interrupts. 

Sam's glad, he's pretty sure he knows what's coming. Steve and Bucky constantly find a way of bickering their way out of paperwork, which more often than not leaves Sam having to deal with it. He doesn't know how it happens, doesn't even think it's that deliberate a move, but he's seen it enough times to know it's better to just flee the scene and leave them to figure it out by themselves. 

"Yeah?" Steve asks. Peter keeps looking at them like he's confused, and Bucky's resorted to leaning against the wall and doing what Sam privately refers to as his supermodel pose. 

"So you're all Captain America, right?" asks Peter, "How do you decide who's doing what? And do you only have one uniform? Also what if the three of you are needed at the same time?" 

For whatever reason, Peter looks at Sam first. Sam just sighs. "We have a schedule,"

"We really don't," Bucky says. 

Steve curls his feet under him on the couch, argues, "Just because _sometimes_ we don't follow–"

"We follow it plenty," Sam stops them. "And we have more than one uniform, obviously." 

"That makes sense," Peter agrees, "Steve's kind of–"

"Yeah," Bucky, blessedly, cuts him off before he can embarrass himself. 

Sam's pretty sure that's where _that_ particular comment was leading. It's not that he doesn't agree, Steve really is _kind of_ , but it doesn't bode too well to keep saying it. He's trying to cling to the last remainings of his sanity that tell him he's not that obsessed with every aspect of Steve, and it's already hard enough to keep things in check without Peter's teenage hormones butting in. 

"If all three of us are needed, I'm Falcon, Bucky's Winter Soldier, Steve's Cap," Sam explains, "It's just easier than finding Steve a new superhero thing,"

"Okay," Peter says. He makes a face like he's thinking about it, and Sam waits him out. "Yeah, that makes sense, I guess." 

"It's a good system," Steve tells him. He glances at the way Bucky's still looking him like he's down for murder, "... Most of the time."

"You're assholes," Bucky tells them. Sam snorts, and Steve doesn't look too bothered. 

"I left some towels out for you, Peter," Steve says, "Do you need an extra pair of clothes?"

"I got it," Peter says. He gestures to the horribly ratty backpack shoved under the table and Sam winces. He doesn't quite understand where the godforsaken bag always comes from, but it seems that it's too late to ask now. "Thanks."

"Bathroom's first door to the left," explains Steve, "The water gets too hot if you don't turn the knob enough, so watch out for that." 

Peter lifts himself up from the couch, his joints popping loudly, "Thanks," he tells them. 

As soon as Peter's out of sight, Bucky's opening his uniform. Steve watches him with an openly amused smile. 

Sam doesn't need _this_ today, too, "What are you doing?"

"The fuck does it look like?" Bucky says, dragging the uniform down his torso. Sam notices that Steve doesn't once avert his eyes, and tries to channel the same energy by staring right at Bucky and acting the least affected possible. 

"Don't you have your own bedroom?" Sam asks. 

"I'm not dragging all this dirt to my bedroom," Bucky argues. It's a fair enough point, actually, "We're cleaning the living room later anyhow, better to just leave all the grime here."

"He's got a point," Steve says, eyes still glued to Bucky's pecs. 

Sam snaps, "Yeah, I know," at him before he can think too much about it. He wonders how the fuck Bucky hasn't noticed Steve's blatant staring, then wonders where the fuck that came from, then wonders if maybe Bucky's noticed and is just more capable of playing it cool than he is.

He finds his answer as soon as Bucky turns to Steve – he goes red, the tips of his ears blushing. Steve gives him a smile, genuine and disconcerting. Bucky mutters, "I'm using your shower," in Sam's general direction before turning on his heel and walking too fast toward Sam's bedroom. 

He's got the ensuite, which he considers _fate_ , Steve considers luck and Bucky considers bullshit. He's left with Steve and all his glory, a little smile playing in the corner of his lips like he's lost in thought. 

Sam picks up a pillow and whacks him on the head with it, "You're cleaning this up," 

Steve fluffs the pillow behind him, looking very amused, "As you wish," 

"Hurry up," Sam admonishes, "I need help with the groceries."

—

By the time Peter comes out of the shower wearing sweatpants and an Iron Man t-shirt, the three of them are sprawled on the couch, legs and arms against each other’s while they watch a semi-old rerun of Criminal Minds. It’s pretty boring – Sam gave up on paying attention about a hundred years ago, is now focusing on the warmth of Steve’s thighs pressed to his and the heavy sound of his breathing. 

He looks up at Peter and smiles, and Peter pretends not to watch them as he flops down in one of the chairs, twisting sideways so his feet hang out of the sides. 

"We ordered Chinese," Steve tells him, "That okay?" 

"Sure," Peter says. He doesn't look uncomfortable – him sleeping over is not that common an occurrence, but it's happened enough times that it's not awkward anymore. He looks at them a lot from the corner of his eyes, so Sam tries his best to stare at the television with an appropriate amount of concentration. 

Bucky doesn't, "Fuck _me_ , this show is boring."

Peter snorts out a laugh, and Bucky grabs the remote from Steve's hand to throw it in his direction. He catches it easily, his laughter muffled by Steve's "Hey, I like this show,"

"Buddy, you like Morgan and JJ, not the show," Bucky points out. 

He sounds shrewd, and it's another one of things Sam sometimes wonders if they ignore on purpose on a day to day basis. He doesn't know _when_ it was that they decided to ignore it, but he's not sure he's allowed to bring it up. He glances at Steve, who's grinning like Bucky just brought up a very fair point, then at Peter. 

"Just choose something," Bucky tells him. 

Peter runs through a multitude of channels, taking about a thousand years before exclaiming loudly, "Oh, Face Off is cool!" 

"What's that?" Steve asks him, he's listing slightly toward Sam so he can turn more openly in Peter's direction, and Sam's very much trying to resist leaning back against him, too. 

"Like, it's a competition where some people do like, body painting? For different themes? Then they have to see who's the best," 

The explanation is all kinds of haphazard, Sam thinks, but that doesn't really matter, he can predict Steve's leaning forward before he even moves, but then he does, and Sam shares an amused look with Bucky over Steve's back. Bucky snorts.

"Body painting?" Steve repeats.

Peter looks almost caught off-guard by the sheer excitement in his voice. Sweet summer child, not yet exposed to Steve's general levels of art–related giddiness. It's insufferable just as often as it's sweet, Sam thinks, remembering the time Steve made them sit through seven hours of video essays on the different scopes of contemporary art. It was an experience, to say the least. He glances at Bucky again, and he seems to be remembering the same thing. 

"That's incredible," Steve says, all his focus dedicated to the woman painting a sunset in different shades of pink across a naked guy's torso. It is pretty incredible, but not nearly as much as the soft gasp Steve lets out when the camera pans to another even more impressive body painting. 

Sam glances at Peter for a second to find that he looks amused, watching Steve with a small smile. He's reminded once again of how easy it is to feel fond of him (not that Sam ever forgets. On the contrary, he finds that he spends most of his time thoroughly overwhelmed by just how much he _likes_ Steve). 

Bucky is smiling to himself, too. He meets Sam's eyes again and Sam quirks an eyebrow at him. He shrugs, burrows further into the couch with one of his arms reaching across the backrest to pinch Sam's shoulder.

He doesn't yelp, shoots Bucky a mock glare before turning back to the television. 

—

Sam rouses out of sleep with the sound of footsteps by his bed. He turns, glancing at the clock briefly (3 a.m.) before moving closer to the wall and lifting his comforter in what he hopes is an inviting manner. 

Peter's asleep on their sofa, probably, and the house is quiet. Bucky slides in next to him easily, pulling the comforter up to his chin. He turns on his side to look at Sam, and it's annoying that he can probably see him very clearly while Sam has to squint in the darkness to barely even manage his silhouette.

"You should just sleep here," Sam tells him. 

This has been happening a lot since they came back from wherever it was that they were. Sam hasn't found the answer, none of them have, all his memories fuzzy and incomplete except for those that feature Bucky and the soft quietness of his voice. He doesn't linger of those too much, on any of them. It's not something he wants to remember, and there's no reason to do it now that he doesn't have to. They're safe (or at least as safe as they'll ever be) and everyone's home. It's enough. 

Bucky sighs, "I keep thinking I might not have to, you know," 

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "But you do, so at this point you might as well just fall asleep here instead of waking me up at the ass crack of dawn,"

"Not dawn yet," Bucky points out. 

"Yeah, this time," Sam argues. Bucky moves closer to him on the bed until their arms are brushing one another. Sam needs that too. He doesn't admit it, but he sleeps better when Bucky's there. 

He wonders how Steve sleeps, if he's had enough time to get used to fear and doesn't need any of this as they do. 

"Is Steve asleep?" he asks. Bucky would know – he's not sure if because of his improved hearing or just because he's almost supernaturally attuned to Steve's entire being at all times. Either way,

"Yeah," he says. "Not always, he listens to music a lot. I think that's why he hasn't–you know."

Sam doesn't, "Hasn't what?" 

"Asked about this," Bucky explains, "I'm not sure he knows, he hasn't mentioned anything."

"Do you think he would?" Sam asks. It's not like Steve, he's not that confrontational a person, especially not when it comes to either of them. 

"Not on purpose," Bucky says, "I don't know."

"We could just tell him," Sam suggests. He's not sure what's there to _tell_. Telling Steve they're sleeping together would sound confusing and every bit like something it isn't, but he's not sure how else he'd word whatever this _thing_ is.

"That won't sound like we're fucking at all," Bucky says. Sam laughs quietly, and Bucky shoves him. 

"I _know,_ " Sam tells him. He twists so he can look up at the ceiling. He feels Bucky's eyes on the side of his face, taps his fingers against his chest. It doesn't feel awkward anymore, not like it did the first time. 

"Are you okay?" he asks. 

Bucky turns on his back, too. "I'm okay," he says. "Which is fucking weird, if you ask me, I didn't expect to be."

"That's pretty bleak," Sam comments.

"Well," Sam feels the mattress dip when Bucky shrugs. "I thought–I don't know, everything kept going to shit, and now it's not."

Sam glances at him in the dark, "The fact that you find that disturbing is kind of sad, man." 

"No shit," Bucky says. "I'm–what's that word people like to use? Damaged? That's me."

Sam rubs his face, and Bucky turns to look at him. "We all are. Not to the same extent, maybe, but. You're right that shit's kind of fucked."

"Shit's kind of fucked," Bucky repeats. He snorts, then. "Wise words, Wilson, is that why they kept you around the VA for so long? Inspirational quotes?"

"I'm plenty inspirational," Sam argues. He feels sleep coming back to him, moves slightly to settle more comfortably on the bed. 

"You're plenty _something_ alright," Bucky agrees. His voice is starting to sound sleepy, too. He slides closer to Sam, nudges their legs together under the covers. 

"We should talk to Steve about getting one of those sofa covers," Sam muses. It's off topic and a little rambly, but Bucky seems to get the idea, 

"I'm almost giving up on it," Bucky says, "It's a pain to clean and we're ruining the upholstery getting it dirty so often."

"Hence the cover," Sam tells him. 

Bucky yawns, "You're not choosing the color," 

Sam can't help but yawn too, eyes watering. Bucky kind of hums, a sound that is decidedly sleepy, "Neither are you," he says.

"Steve can choose the color," Bucky offers. 

Sam nods, eyes closing despite himself, "Sounds good to me," 

He doesn't say goodnight, doesn't offer any other words. Bucky doesn't either, instead shuffling even closer to Sam on the bed. They're asleep between a breath and the next.

—

Sam wakes up to an empty bed. It’s not surprising, seeing as Bucky tends to rise a lot earlier than he does. He stretches, inhales the smell of warm coffee. He strains to listen to any conversation, but the house seems quiet. 

Steve, when Sam pads into the living room still bleary-eyed and in pajamas, is lying on the couch with his laptop balanced on his chest. His neck is bent on a weird angle. Sam pauses next to the coffee table, 

“Peter?” He asks. The house is too silent, and he knows for a fact that that wouldn’t be the case were Peter still there. He tends to talk a lot – it doesn’t necessarily bother Sam, but he can’t deny that waking up to a quiet morning is kind of nice. 

“Gone already,” Steve tells him. He doesn’t look up from the screen. “Ned came to get him? They’re doing something together, I think,”

Sam blinks at him. “Okay,” he says. He can’t help but find it amusing that everyone knows so much about each other. He’s pretty sure they’re a bit too aware of each other’s schedules on a daily basis. 

“Have you spoken to Nat?” Sam asks. 

Steve looks up at him, finally, “Yep, nothing new. Guess we have the day free,” 

Sam smiles. Steve smiles, too, rolling his eyes and directing his gaze back to the laptop screen. Sam’s intrigued, if he’s being honest. Steve’s not usually the most excited about computers (at least not in comparison to Bucky, who tends to go bright-eyed at anything that even resembles new technology), so whatever is taking hold of his attention must be good. 

He frowns, considering just asking him about it, but then Bucky’s walking into the room with three large mugs of coffee balanced on his hands, and Steve’s computer mystery is momentarily forgotten. 

Bucky hands one of the mugs to Steve, muttering a soft “Careful, idiot,” that Steve ignores in favor of trying to sit up and spilling coffee all over himself. 

“Told you so,” Bucky says. He hands the second mug to Sam. Sam nods at him, sits down on one of the chairs to take a careful sip. It’s black and only sort of sweet – just how Sam likes it. He shoots Bucky a smile, and Bucky smiles back. 

“Shove over,” Bucky tells Steve. There’s a perfectly good chair available, but he doesn’t even glance at it. Steve doesn’t either. He lifts both of his legs up so Bucky can slide under them, settles them back on Bucky’s lap. 

“Whatcha doing?” Bucky asks. Sam’s not doing anything but stare blankly out the living room window, so the question has to be directed at Steve. 

Sam turns his head to look at them. Steve closes the laptop, and Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him. “Nothing,” Steve says. “Just reading some articles,”

Bucky hums, “About what,”

There’s a pause, almost long enough to be noticeable, until Steve answers, “Mid 15th century Renaissance tapestry.” It’s framed like a question, almost, but Sam figures neither him nor Bucky know enough about the topic to really dispute his answer, so he watches quietly as Bucky nods. 

“Sounds, uh” Bucky starts. He seems to be searching for words, “Interesting.”

Steve smiles at him, “Sure is.”

It sounds _kind of_ like a lie. Sam is pretty sure Bucky’s caught up on it too if the way he’s frowning at the blank television screen is any indication. 

Bucky sighs, “Have you heard anything from T’Challa lately?” 

As far as changing the subject goes, it’s not the most subtle approach. Sam appreciates the effort regardless. So does Steve, apparently. He sits up, places the laptop down on the floor in front of the sofa. 

“Not for a few days,” he answers, “Why?” 

“Shuri hasn’t been answering my texts,” says Bucky. Their relationship, which seems to consist of scary amounts of mutual shit-talking and a lot of scream-laughing, is still somewhat of a mystery to Sam. They talk a lot, as far as Sam knows, the generational gap making for a huge number of amusing interactions. 

Steve laughs, “Didn’t you spoil the end of Killing Eve for her the other day?” he asks, “Maybe she’s still mad.”

“How was I supposed to know she hadn’t seen it? She’s usually faster than us about these things,” Bucky argues. 

“Well,” Steve drawls. Bucky pokes him in the shin – it doesn’t do much, but Steve’s leg twitches and Bucky grins. 

Sam takes a sip of his coffee, watching as they watch each other. It makes him feel weirdly warm, as though he’s standing under the sun in a mid-summer day. He coughs, and Bucky looks at him. 

“You okay?” He asks. 

Sam nods, “Yep,” 

He reaches for the remote, turning on the morning news. Sam glances back at them after a few minutes to find that Bucky has his eyes closed and Steve’s looking out the window, a content little smile on his face. 

It’s not at all different from how their mornings usually go. Sam grins, too. The relative silence is comfortable, and it strikes Sam just how used to them he is, to their little three-piece puzzle. 

Sam places his mug on the table, and Steve turns to him, 

“Hey, d’you wanna go with me to the library later?” he asks. Bucky opens his eyes, so Steve presses his foot against Bucky’s thigh to communicate that the invitation is extended to him as well. “I have a bunch of books I’ve meaning to check out,”

“Sure,” Sam says. Bucky nods, looking slightly dazed. 

Bucky yawns, loud and obnoxious, “We’re stopping by a Starbucks,”

Steve gives him a look, “You’re aware that you have an addiction, right?”

“I’m not currently taking constructive criticism, buddy,” he tells Steve, “Maybe try again some other time?”

Sam snorts. The frequency in which Bucky indulges in ridiculously large caramel macchiatos is a big point of contention in their household. Sam doesn’t think too much of it, and he’s sure Steve doesn’t either, but his impulse to be an asshole seems to overrun all good sense when it comes to Bucky. It doesn’t seem like there’s a single detail of him that goes unnoticed by Steve, which is both sweet and slightly worrying. Or it would be if Sam had any place to talk. As it is, it’s hard to judge – he spends too much of his time stupidly preoccupied with all things Steve-and-Bucky, and he only _sort_ of minds it. 

“You’ll get your macchiato, Buck,” Sam says. “What time d’you wanna leave?”

“We could go out for lunch too,” Steve suggests. 

Bucky squeezes Steve’s leg with a smile, “I like the way you think,” he says. Then, “Who gets first shower?”

—

It always surprises Sam how little they get recognized out on the streets. He thinks it might be silly that he always expects heads to turn and people to stare at them for too long to be casual, but he’s still caught off-guard by how it hardly ever happens. 

The three of them walk side by side down Berry St, unexpectedly inconspicuous even as Steve bursts out laughing loud enough that someone turns to give him a side-eye. Bucky’s full of shit, as usual, holding on to his coffee with a dumb grin stretched across his face. Sam’s trying hard to kill all the butterflies fluttering around his stomach, but it’s been pretty slow-going. 

“She _was not_ ,” Bucky insists, failing to sound indignant with how widely he’s smiling. Sam bumps his shoulder against him, snorting quietly as Steve’s gesturing grows more obnoxious. 

“She was totally into you,” he argues, “Sam, help me out,”

“Steve’s right,” Sam says. It’s automatic and not at all true. Or, well. It might be true, but Sam has no way of knowing, but also no way of telling either of them that he was too busy lost in the warmth of having Steve pressed close to him to notice. 

Steve grins, “See,”

“Sam always thinks you’re right,” Bucky scoffs. 

He’s not wrong, per se. “I don’t,” Sam says anyway. 

Steve grabs Bucky by the arm to pull him sideways into the library, and Sam follows them in with a smile. They’re way too big to be acting this stupid, Sam thinks, but it’s weirdly endearing instead of just grating. 

They follow Steve down to the Arts section, Bucky snickering quietly as they walk past a table full of teenage girls hunched over a book illustrated with a wild assortment of pictures of Thor. Steve elbows Bucky, and he has to cover his mouth not to laugh out loud. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says. Bucky shrugs, leaning against one of the shelves easily. Sam shuffles closer to him while Steve squats down to look through the lowest shelf. 

Sam glances at Bucky – he too seems to find the curve of Steve’s back interesting enough to hold all of his attention, so Sam’s not about to deprive himself of the pleasure of just watching Steve run his fingers down several book’s spines, frowning in concentration. 

Eventually, Steve lifts the pile of books he’d been placing on the floor toward Bucky, “Will you hold these for me?”

Bucky, ever the nuisance, grins, “Don’t you have super strength or something?”

Steve glares at him, so Sam reaches over to take hold of the pile, elbowing Bucky on the way. Bucky laughs, and Steve gets up from his crouch to flick him on the shoulder. 

“Is that all?” Sam asks, passing the books back to Steve. He starts walking to the counter, Bucky and Steve on his heel. The librarian, a girl on her twenties who wears too much eyeliner and has never once been seen in anything that wasn’t black, gives the three of them a funny look. She does it often – they kind of know her by now, and apparently, she’s a fan of Bucky. 

“Hi,” she tells him. Sam’s sure she likes to think she’s addressing all three of them, even if, pretty objectively, she’s just looking at Bucky. She gives him a smile.

Bucky smiles back, “How are you doing today, Camille?” 

“Good,” she says, “Thanks.”

Steve places the books carefully on the counter, sliding them in her direction, and she looks down at them then up at Bucky with a brand new sort of excitement, “Art books,” she says. Bucky nods, “I’m a big art person myself.”

Bucky points to Steve easily, “So is Steve,” he tells her. 

She frowns at Steve, all the warmth that was just directed at Bucky now turning cold, “Well,” she starts, “I’m more interested in looking at all artistic manifestation through a Marxist lens, so,” before giving Steve the cold shoulder to work on registering the books. 

Steve looks so thoroughly confused that Sam barks out a peal of laughter, has to cover it with a cough. Steve quirks an eyebrow at him while Bucky seems to be fighting a grin. 

With a sigh, she turns back to them and hands the books to Steve. She offers Bucky (and only Bucky) a smile and goes back to staring at her monitor as if they’re not even there. 

“What the fuck?” Steve asks, as soon as they’re out the door. Bucky bursts out laughing and Sam can’t help but follow. “What did I say?”

Bucky tries to take a breath, “Steve.”

“She thinks you’re a filthy capitalist,” Sam tells him, gasping for breath. He has to actually clutch his stomach, and Bucky’s loud snort sets him off again. 

“You’re shitting me,” says Steve, “Is that why–”

“She absolutely thinks you’re trash, man,” repeats Sam. “A Marxist lens, holy fuck,”

“I like Marx!” Steve argues. He sounds indignant, and Bucky meets Sam’s eye for the quickest second before giggling loudly. Steve gives them both an incredulous look, “And I’m not blind to the exploitation of the working class, what the hell,”

“Yeah, well,” says Sam. Bucky has to wipe tears from the corner of his eyes, it’s that bad. “You _are_ Captain America, it’s sort of in the name,”

Steve actually opens his mouth to argue before snapping it shut with a scowl, “Fuck me,” he states, “I hate that.”

Bucky laughs, “No shit,” he says, “If people only knew the half of it,”

—

Sam's rummaging through Steve's bottom drawer in hopes of finding the extra bottle of body wash that he knows Steve keeps stored for emergencies when he finds the sketchbook. He's alone in Steve's bedroom, Bucky and Steve busy cooking dinner. He can hear their voices from afar, and whatever they're making has started to smell good. 

He knows what he's holding as soon as he sees it – he saw it enough times back when he and Steve were on the run to know exactly what he’ll find inside. The first page is a drawing of Bucky, the lines of his body so true to life that Sam’s breath is stolen from him as soon as he lays eyes on it. There’s a liveliness to it, Sam notices, the brightness in Bucky’s gaze just as it is when he and Steve are bickering over nothing around Sam.

He knew that that was something Steve did. It used to make him wonder, way back when, about the nature of their relationship. Steve’s commitment to Bucky had always seemed unshakable, and Sam had seen the drawings before he saw Bucky, still remembers how vividly it dawned on him that Steve had him committed to memory, every detail of his face and nuance in his expressions. It was oddly romantic, made Sam think of Greek tragedies and epic love stories, the idea that Steve hadn’t seen his face in over 70 years and could still conjure him so clearly. 

It gives him the same feeling now. He looks at the drawing, traces his fingers down Bucky’s face. He turns the page, then, to another drawing of Bucky – a different pose, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. He looks just as good on the page as he always does, and Sam feels weird to know that he gets to see him like this now, has been in the receiving end of Bucky’s wild grins enough to be used to them. Sam’s part of whatever they are now, is the thing. He feels it sharply, looking at Steve’s drawings. 

He keeps turning the pages, watching as Bucky shows up again and again, each time different and the same. Sam’s so enraptured that he almost drops the sketchbook to the floor when he turns the page to find not a drawing of Bucky but of himself. 

It’s undoubtedly him that he’s staring at. He gets up from the bed to stand in front of Steve’s mirror and stare at his own face. He raises his eyebrows, parts his mouth to imitate the expression he’s got in the drawing. It’s the exact same attention to detail that he found in the drawings of Bucky, except it’s his details. 

He doesn’t get to dwell on it too much, though, has to shove the sketchbook back inside the drawer hurriedly when he hears footsteps approaching the bedroom. 

Steve yelps when he sees him, hand flying up to his chest, “Holy fuck,” he says, “You scared the shit out of me,”

Sam grins, hoping he doesn’t look too stunned, “Sorry,” 

Steve squints at him, “What are you–if you’re trying to steal my extra shower gel,” he warns, and Sam relaxes against the dresser. 

“I’ve run out of mine,” Sam complains.

Steve smirks, “Tough shit, buddy,” 

“Seriously?” Sam asks, “That’s fucking evil,”

It is, but he’s glad for the distraction – he doubts he’ll ever stop thinking about Steve’s drawing of him, but at least he can pretend he’s capable of basic human functions like chirping and arguing. 

“Says the guy who was about to _steal_ my body wash,” Steve argues. 

Sam pulls a face, “I was _borrowing_ it,”

“Sure you were,” Steve says, “Why haven’t you showered yet, by the way? Dinner’s ready in ten, hurry up,”

“I’ll hurry,” he says, watching Steve as he grabs his old school appointment book from the bedside table and turns to the door. “Can I borrow the wash?”

Steve sighs, “Fine,” he tells him. “But leave it in our bathroom afterward,”

Sam grins at him, opens the drawer to fetch the bottle and closes it quickly to act as if he hadn’t seen a thing. “Will do, Captain,”

He follows Steve out of the bedroom in a hurry, and Steve shoves him sideways into his own bedroom with an impatient “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

—

Dinner is good. The food is a bit too salty, which happens so often when Steve is the one doing the cooking that Sam is used to it by now. Bucky keeps nudging Sam’s feet with his own under the table, and Steve has been trying to convince them to join him in a game of Scrabble for the past ten minutes. Sam knows better than to accept. He’s learned the hard way that things have a tendency to get a bit crazy in competition games (the hard way meaning having nearly been blinded by one of Steve’s cards when they were playing poker a few nights ago). 

“It would be fun,” is Steve’s closing argument. He gives both of them his most practiced puppy look and Bucky actually looks mildly convinced, 

“I mean,” Bucky starts. Sam narrows his eyes at him, but it doesn’t stop him, “It could be–”

“Yeah, no,” Sam interrupts, “I’m gonna have to pass,”

Steve keeps looking at Sam, “Playing with just two people is boring,”

“He’s got a point,” Bucky tries. 

Sam sighs. He glances at the clock. It’s early enough that he could maybe play a little before the Knicks game. 

“Fine,” he tells them. Steve’s grin goes very wide for a second, making him look kind of manic. Sam looks at Bucky, “I’m not coming to the rescue if he tries to kill you,”

Bucky scoffs, “I can take him, thanks,”

“Can you now,” Steve drawls. Sam feels a weird blush creep up his cheeks, has to shrug off whatever weirdness just settled over him from the tone of Steve’s voice. Not for the first time, he tells himself to get a grip. 

“Okay,” he states, “I’ll set the board while you do the dishes,”

“Bucky, you’re it,” Steve says, before leaping from his seat to follow Sam to the living room. 

“Who says I’m doing the dishes?” Bucky complains. 

Sam doesn’t even glance back, just keeps walking out of the room before anyone can suggest he be the one to do it. He wouldn’t, anyway, but it’s better not to be mentioned at all. 

“I cooked,” Steve tells him. 

Bucky squints, “Barely,” 

“See? This kinda attitude means you’re doing the dishes,” Steve tells him, running back into the kitchen just to throw a dirty rag in Bucky’s general direction. 

Sam sneaks a look at them – Bucky’s annoyed frown kind of looks charming, which is just _one_ of the several disturbing thoughts he’s had today (things are clearly getting out of hand). 

“I hate you,” he calls to Steve.

Steve laughs, “Love you too, Buck,”

—

Surprisingly, they don’t kill each other during the game. Sam wins by a landslide, and Steve only sulks for about ten minutes before he gets too distracted by the Knicks game to keep frothing at the mouth. 

Sam’s sat between them, the world’s largest bowl of popcorn on his lap. The Knicks are winning, and yet all he can think of is the little sketchbook in Steve’s drawer. His own face looking back at him. It makes him feel uncomfortably warm, but he ends up moving closer either to Steve or to Bucky whenever he twitches in his seat, so all his nervous ticks feel obnoxiously counterproductive. 

Bucky keeps moving, too, which means they’re pretty much plastered together by the first interval. Steve glances at them before getting up to stretch. 

“More popcorn?” he asks, grabbing the empty bowl on his way to the kitchen. Sam watches him go, very much staring at his ass. He leaps up from the couch, and Bucky startles. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces. Pretty unnecessary, and maybe even more conspicuous than just _going to the bathroom._ He takes a sharp turn to the left instead of walking into his ensuite, though, ends up standing in front of Steve’s dresser with a blank expression. 

He’s crouching on the floor to retrieve the sketchbook from the drawer when Bucky just about teleports into the room. It would be nice to say that Sam doesn’t fall on his ass at the sight of him, but that’s exactly what happens. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky hisses. Sam looks up at him – he’s got Steve’s laptop in his arms, hugging it like a pillow. 

“Nothing,” he says, “What are _you_ doing?” 

Bucky stares at him, “Nothing,” and Sam must look seriously skeptical. He exhales, “Fine, I was curious. He’s being weird about something, I just wanna know what it is,”

“Shit,” says Sam, “You’ve noticed too?”

“Obviously,” Bucky says. “You’re not allowed to judge,”

“I won’t,” Sam assures him.

“Great. Just like I’m not judging that you were totally about to steal his body wash,” Bucky tells him. 

Sam swallows, “I wasn’t,” he says. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, “Shit, the sketchbooks?”

“You know about those?” Sam asks. There’s no way Bucky can know about the drawings and _not_ know how Steve must feel about him. Which means that he also knows about how Steve must feel about Sam – or at least how Sam thinks Steve must feel about him. 

“A Steve Rogers classic,” Bucky answers. It’s telling enough, and Sam springs up to stand next to Bucky in front of the bed. “Ok, here we go.”

He looks over his shoulder for a second before opening the laptop. In true Steve Rogers fashion, it’s not password protected. Sam feels flattered, even if he’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t keep any real information on it. 

The page, when it loads, has a huge Buzzfeed icon on the top. The tab reads _Thirty people share their exper…_. It’s just a bunch of ads, and Bucky turns to Sam to give him a confused look. 

“What the fuck?” he whispers. “His big secret is Buzzfeed?”

Sam sighs, “Scroll down, dumbass,” 

So Bucky does. The title, in its huge black font, reads _Thirty People Share Their Experiences With Polyamory._

The exact look on Bucky’s face when he turns back to Sam is enough to nearly make him scream, but he doesn’t quite get to – he barely gets to open his mouth before Steve’s voice is echoing from the living room, loud and impatient, “Guys? The game’s back on.”

—

The Knicks win the game. Sam truly has no clue _how,_ seeing as he and Bucky spend the entirety of it sat on either side of Steve stifling similar freakouts. They keep glancing at each other, surely trying their best to play it cool, but it doesn't quite work. 

Steve, thankfully, seems oblivious to the inner conflict taking place right next to him. He sprawls into their space with his bowl of popcorn in hand and barely looks away from the screen – he even lets out a whoop when the final point is scored, which startles Sam so much he nearly jumps off the couch. 

"You guys okay?" He asks once the game is over. 

Sam smiles at him, hoping it comes across as natural. "Yeah, great game."

"Knox was great," Bucky agrees. Sam winces right as Steve turns to Bucky with a frown,

"He wasn't–" he pauses. He glances back at Sam, who doesn't even breathe out of stress. "He's injured. He wasn't playing."

Bucky laughs, very abruptly, "Wasn't he?" Sam shakes his head, "Well,"

"What's going on?" Steve interrupts. He doesn't sound annoyed, or angry, or anything other than just curious. Bucky glances at Sam, but Sam doesn't know what to say either. 

"Nothing's going on," Bucky tells him. "Just having a weird day, sorry,"

Steve frown melts into an understanding smile, he squeezes Bucky's arm and leans a bit closer to him, "D'you wanna talk about it?"

Sam sighs. It's a very Steve thing to do – it's why they're in this mess in the first place, Steve can't seem to help being warm and almost obnoxiously likable. 

Bucky places his other hand, all metal, on top of Steve's. "It's fine," he says, "But thanks,"

"I'm here if you need anything." He assures Bucky. He turns to Sam, shoots him a similarly soft smile, "You too, Sam."

Sam can't help but smile back, "Thanks, man."

Steve nods. "You guys should have some rest. I'm pretty sure we have a full day tomorrow, Tony requested a meeting about some shoddy activity going on in LA." 

"We don't have anyone on the coast?" Bucky asks. 

"Scott's there," Sam tells them, "Hope too,"

Steve gets up to stretch, and both Sam and Bucky stare at the television in an attempt not to stare at his abs. 

"They might need reinforcements," Steve says, "We're still doing recon, all depends on what we find."

"Hence the meeting," Bucky asks. 

Steve sighs, "Hence the meeting," 

"Do they have any clue what it could be?" Sam questions. 

It might be a good distraction, no time for Steve-related freakouts if they're all the way across the country eliminating threats. Or well, at least theoretically, he's pretty sure he and Bucky would find some way to fit a proper shit-losing in their schedule regardless. 

"Not yet," Steve says, "Probably more alien artifacts smuggling. Maybe a bigger team this time."

Bucky rolls his eyes, "Why can't people just let this shit go?" 

"Money," Steve shrugs. "Kind of hard to fault them, especially those who have to resort to this."

"Eh," Bucky says, "Guess you have a point." 

Steve grins, "Always do, Buck," 

"That's very humble of you," Bucky comments. 

Steve smile grows even wider, "Just stating a fact," 

Sam rolls his eyes, "Sure you are," then, "To what time should I set up the alarm?"

"Nine-ish?" Steve says. "Something like that. We're meeting for lunch." 

"Nine it is, then." Sam agrees. "I'm going to bed. See you guys tomorrow." 

Bucky gives him a look, "See you tomorrow."

—

Bucky, obviously, sees him less than two hours later, when he slides into Sam's bed and shoves him toward the wall. 

"Wake up," he mutters. 

Sam turns on his side to glare at him, "Obviously I'm awake, dipshit."

Bucky shifts closer to him, "Okay, what the fuck,"

"Did you know that he, uh–" Sam stalls. Bucky waits him out with a blank look, "That he knew?"

"Is there something _to know_?" Bucky asks. 

Sam stares at him. It's kind of a preposterous question, given the situation. 

He gestures at them, "It's a little late to pull this shit now, man."

"Fine," he says. "I mean, this is not how I thought we'd talk about it, but–"

Sam interrupts him, "Did you think we'd talk about it?" 

"Obviously?" says Bucky. "You didn't?"

"You never said anything," Sam points out, "Was I supposed to guess?" 

Bucky gives him an indignant look, “I'd hardly call it a guess, Wilson.”

“It is a guess if you don't say anything,” says Sam. He’s not a mind reader, after all. Sure, maybe he was purposefully ignoring some context clues here and there, but it seemed like a good judgment call when he did it. 

Bucky sighs, “I thought you knew–”

“How would I–Is this a forties thing?” Sam asks. Bucky glares at him in the dark, “Because seriously, that's terrible communication–”

Bucky pokes him in the chest, “Jesus, just–Shut up, can we not argue about this, please?”

“I’m not arguing,” Sam argues. “I’m just pointing out that you could’ve said something if you knew.”

“That’s beside the point,” Bucky tells him. 

Sam frowns, “It really isn’t,” 

“Fine,” says Bucky, “I’ll tell you right now if it’ll change something, just. Do you think Steve knows?”

“Obviously he knows,” Sam says. “And I’d love to have you tell me now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters, “Fine. Samuel Thomas Wilson–

“--If you’re gonna be an asshole about this–”

Bucky ignores him, “Sam, Falcon, my fellow Captain America, I, Bucky Barnes, have what you would call _feelings_ for–”

“You’re such a shit,” Sam tells him. 

“You asked me to say it,” Bucky points out. He has the audacity to laugh, so Sam whacks him with a pillow. 

“Okay, we can figure our shit out later,” Sam concedes, “Steve?”

“He’s included in our shit,” Bucky tells Sam, “Obviously.”

Sam couldn’t agree more. “Great, me too,” he says. 

There’s a silent pause, where Sam can’t hear anything and Bucky can hear whatever it is that he usually hears with his super hearing, which apparently is everything except for Steve standing right outside the bedroom door, seeing as they both nearly fall off the bed when the door opens abruptly to reveal Steve on the other side. 

“You’re both idiots,” Steve tells them. Sam’s still yelping, and Bucky’s actually clutching his chest. 

“How–” Bucky starts, but Steve waves him off, 

“I left the music on,” he says. “I found the computer. Wasn’t where I left it. You’re pretty shit spies,”

“Tell that to Hydra,” Bucky points out. Sam’s heart is still racing, and Bucky sounds just breathless enough that he knows he’s not fully recovered just yet. 

“I’d rather not,” says Steve. He’s dressed in his usual pajamas (flannel pants and loose t-shirt) and he pauses by the foot of the bed with an amused look in his face. “Shove over,”

They try. The bed is already not big enough for two overly large men, much less three, and Bucky and Sam end up half on top of each other so Steve can slide under the covers with them. 

“Okay,” he says. “What now,”

Sam turns on his side and presses himself closer to the wall so he’s not completely under Bucky, “You tell me,”

Bucky sighs, “Shit, we’re great at communicating, aren’t we,”

“I’ll go first,” Steve tells them. Bucky shifts so he can look at Steve too, and Sam has to lean on his elbows so the back of Bucky’s head isn’t obscuring his view of the earnest look on Steve’s face. 

“These past months have been the best of my life,” he tells them, “For the longest time I thought I’d just be miserable and alone forever, and I had made my peace with that. I kept getting you back just to lose you all over again, Buck. I thought that was it for us. You’re the love of my life. I think you know this. I hope you know this. But you’re not the only one. Sam, you’ve changed my life in more ways than I can tell you and I just--I love you. Both of you. I never even thought happiness like this would be something I’d be allowed to have.”

He stops, then. There’s a distinct sound of sniffling and a whole lot of silence before Bucky, very articulate, says, “Shit.”

Sam shoves him closer to Steve, “Way to ruin the moment, Buck.”

“Sorry,” he says. He sounds overwhelmed, and Sam can’t see him, but he’d be willing to bet that he’s blushing, “You–that sure was a speech there, Stevie,”

Steve doesn’t flinch. Sam can admire that in a man, he doesn’t seem to give two shits about awkwardness, “Yeah, well,” he says, “That’s how I feel. Any thoughts on the matter?”

“The love of your life, huh,” Bucky repeats. 

Steve hums, “That’s what I said,”

Sam snorts, and Bucky shoves him. “Shut up, I’m digesting,”

“Taking a long time there, buddy,” Sam points out. 

Bucky elbows him on the side, “I don’t see _you_ saying anything.”

“Steve?” Sam calls. He can almost feel the warmth of Steve’s smile, “I love you too.”

Steve reaches for his hand over Bucky’s chest. Sam takes hold of it – he’s warm. Sam feels his heart speed up in his chest. They settle their joined hands over Bucky’s heart by accident. It’s beating fast, too, and Sam’s pretty sure the sniffling came from him. 

“Buck,” Steve asks. 

“You’re the love of my life too,” he tells him. It’s about the quietest Sam’s ever heard him be. Sam smiles when Bucky nudges him with his hip, “You too, Wilson.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam laughs, “I know,”

Bucky turns his head in Sam’s direction, “If you knew then why didn’t you–”

Sam looks up at the ceiling, “Not this again, for fuck’s sake,”

“I’m just saying that you just said that you’d have to guess,” Bucky points out. 

“That’s because I would have had to if you hadn’t said it, which you did, so now I know,” Sam explains. 

“That’s–” Bucky starts. 

Steve’s hand flies up to cover his mouth, “You two idiots are ruining the moment,”

Bucky licks Steve’s hand – it’s pretty impressive that Steve just raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Fine,” Bucky says. Or Sam thinks he does. It’s kind of muffled by Steve’s hand. “Fine,” he repeats, when Steve pulls his hand away. 

Steve smiles at him, “Thanks. Let’s just bask in the romance for a little bit,”

“Wow,” Sam says. 

Bucky snorts. “God, you’re embarrassing,”

Steve puts on his best Captain America voice, and Sam knows right away that he’s fucking with them, “Is love embarrassing for you, Barnes?”

Sam laughs, “Yeah, Bucky, is love embarrassing for you?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky tells them both. 

He pulls Steve closer by the arm, pressing his own body more firmly against Sam’s. Sam loops his arm around Bucky’s waist in what he feels is a pretty smooth maneuver.

“Still embarrassing now?” he asks, nudging his nose against the side of Bucky’s throat. Bucky exhales loudly, and Steve turns to drag his lips down Bucky’s cheeks. 

He hums, “Maybe we should stop embarrassing him, Sam,”

“Might be a good idea,” Sam agrees, rubbing his leg up and down Bucky’s thigh. Bucky shivers, and Sam snorts. 

“I hate you both,” says Bucky. He sighs heavily as Steve lowers his hand to palm his thigh, fingers brushing against Sam’s leg on the way. 

He drags his hand a few inches up, Bucky’s body tensing against them, only to pull it away and turn to face away from them in a flurry. 

Sam barks out a loud peal of laughter. Bucky glares at him, “What the fuck?”

“We have to be awake in a few hours, remember?” Steve tells him. Sam can picture the smarmy look on his face, the same one he gets whenever he manages to get one over them, “We should probably get some rest.”

Bucky scoffs, “I’ll kick you off the bed,” he threatens. 

“It’s Sam’s bed,” Steve counters easily. 

Sam has to give it to him. “He’s got a point,” he says, turning to face away from Bucky too. He grins at the wall, feeling far too giddy. “Good night, Buck,”

Bucky smarts, “Seriously?” 

“Sleep well,” Steve tells him. Sam snorts again, and Bucky shoves him closer to the wall. 

“I can’t believe this.”

—

Tony stares at them for the whole meeting. The openly amused look on his face is all kinds of unnerving, so Sam tries his best not to make any eye-contact. 

He shuffles over to Steve as soon as it’s over, raises both of his eyebrows. “Took you long enough, huh,”

Steve rolls his eyes at him, “Peter told you?” 

“Yup,” Tony grins, “He saw the laptop, apparently,” 

“Who hasn’t, at this point,” Steve says. Sam tries not to look too much like he’s overhearing.

“I’m happy for you,” Tony tells him. “So’s Pepper. And Happy. Nat and Clint too. Carol hasn’t said anything yet but I’m sure she’s happy too."

Steve stares at him, “Is there anyone you _haven’t_ told?”

“Haven’t told Scott yet,” Tony smirks. 

Steve sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> because i lost my shit and threw all rational thought to the side in favor of writing this as soon as i could, this is not beta'd. any and all mistakes are my own (i tried my best to catch all of them, but probably didn't succeed). the title is a line from _ends of the earth_ by lord huron. 
> 
> i'm [unhawkeye](https://unhawkeye.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if anyone wants to hang out. as usual, all comments and kudos are much appreciated! thanks for reading it if you did and have a nice day!


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